He's Not Sammy Anymore
by deangirl1
Summary: One week after the final showdown in AHBL2. Don't let the title mislead you...


He's Not Sammy Anymore

Sam heard the rumble of the impala as it pulled into Bobby's yard. He was a bit surprised that it was still dark and glanced at the clock. A little after 2 am. This was the first night in the week they'd been at Bobby's that Dean had made it home before 6 am reeking of booze and sex. _Guess he managed to make it through all the local talent_, Sam thought. Dean would stagger in, collapse on his bed and drift off to sleep. But not for long. After about an hour each night, Sam would hear it start – a violent nightmare. Dean didn't have dreams very often and rarely nightmares. This week, however, Dean was dreaming every night: Nightmares that jerked Dean awake and sent him to the shower by 8.

The days had taken on a repeatable pattern. As soon as they'd had breakfast – Dean was sticking with strictly black coffee until after noon – they would dive into research. They'd spent the week trying to track where all the demons had disappeared to. Checking for signs of demons and possessions. There was no way to know how many they were looking for and without Ash's help it was slow going just identifying the signs. They'd also begun the process of notifying all the hunters that Bobby and Ellen could think of and trying to gather them together. It wasn't going to be at all easy to convince the normally solitary hunters to work together. A suspicious, loner personality was a definite asset for a hunter, but generally meant group work was pretty much a bust – or at least a bust-up.

So far, Dean had managed to keep Sam at bay and avoid talking about the deal and what they were going to do about it. He knew the clock was ticking, but the price for not going through with it was just too high, and he wasn't ready to tell Sammy the whole story of what happened at the crossroads. Gradually, as the week had worn on, the euphoria of the night in the graveyard had worn off. Dean had felt real satisfaction and fulfillment that night. He'd killed the YED, he'd avenged their mother, he'd saved Sammy, he'd released his father's soul from hell – presumably also by killing the YED. But why couldn't he have killed that bastard before he had a chance to open his lying mouth and leave a pit of growing doubts in his gut? He couldn't know for sure if his Dad had been released but the way his spirit image had dissipated sure suggested his moving on. To where was anybody's guess but as long as he wasn't in hell. And that's why Dean was having nightmares. The more he thought, the worse they got. So, he tried not to think.

When Sam heard the impala, his first thought was this was his chance to corner Dean without Bobby or Ellen providing a distraction. Sam heard the rumble of the impala cut off. He'd wait patiently until Dean came into the bedroom and then he'd confront him. Sam didn't realize he'd drifted off until he noticed that the clock now said 2:30. What the hell? Where was Dean? Damn it. Trust his stubborn ass brother to screw up the simplest plan. He'd probably snagged a beer and was sitting out on the porch or the impala. Sam sighed and threw off his covers. If Mohammad won't come to the mountain, then the mountain would go to Mohammad.

Sam moved silently through the house not wanting to wake either Bobby or Ellen. Definitely no Dean in the house. Sam was surprised not to find Dean on the porch or steps of the house. Dean had done a piss poor job of parking the impala too. Sam squinted. Dean was still behind the wheel. _Damn. I hope the stupid jerk wasn't so wasted driving home that he passed out as soon as he put the car in park._ Sam padded off the porch, up to the driver's side of the car, and tapped lightly on the window.

Dean jumped about a foot, and Sam couldn't help but smirk – he so rarely got the drop on his brother. The smile quickly faded as Dean turned his face toward his brother blinking owlishly at him. Dean's face was barely recognizable: it was covered in bruises. He had one eye almost swollen shut and his face was also covered in blood.

"Dean! What the hell? Oh man, how bad are you hurt?"  
"Sammy? 'Sok. How'd you g'here?"

"You're back at Bobby's, Dean. I should be asking you how you got here. And Dude, you are so far from ok."

Dean grunted and tried to smirk as he attempted to drag himself out of the impala. Opening the door and swinging his body from the car elicited a new series of groans and hisses. Sam noted the cut, bruised and bleeding knuckles, as well as how Dean tried to hug his arms into his ribs. Obviously, Dean had taken a number of body blows in addition to the damage inflicted on his face. He'd still been sporting the bruising and cut from the night in the graveyard.

Dean used the impala door to pull himself upright, but once he shut it, he swayed precariously. Sam caught his arm and helped to steer him up the stairs and into the kitchen where Dean sank gratefully into a chair. Sam quickly, quietly, and efficiently moved about the kitchen locating the medical supplies that he knew Bobby stashed there. He also fished two bags of frozen vegetables out of the freezer.

"Here. Put your hands on the table."

Dean's head jerked up. Sam laid the bag of peas on the knuckles of one of Dean's hands and the bag of corn on the other. Dean'd been on the verge of sleep, and really, sleep was the last place he really wanted to visit. Well maybe not the last place, but considering what he'd been dreaming about the last week, it was pretty much the same thing.

"Did you leave Bobby with _any_ veggies?"

"Dude, when have you ever seen Bobby eat a vegetable?"

"Good point."

"Pretty sure, those are strictly medicinal."

Sam started by cleaning the blood off of Dean's face. _At least none of the cuts look bad enough to warrant stitches. _Sam thought. He was amazed that the stitches already in Dean's head seemed to be fine.

"Do you think your ribs are cracked or broken? Do they need to be taped?" Sam's voice was low. He really didn't want to yell at his brother. He was scaring him and pissing him off, but Sam could understand that Dean had steam that he needed to blow off.

"No. Just bruised." Dean's voice was also low and raspy like he hadn't been using it.

"Care to tell me what happened?" Sam's request was as casual as he could make it. It carried the patented _Sammy will wait forever for the answer_ undertone, however. Sam slipped into the chair beside his brother.

"Not a big deal, dude. Apparently, some of the girls who told me they were single exaggerated. I had a lovely visit with some of their significant others. And let me tell you Sam, some of them were pretty significant." Dean's mouth quirked up at the corner.

The fight had been pretty intense. Dean had started the night with every intention of following what was now his nightly ritual. Have some drinks – ok, a significant number of drinks – and hook up with the most appealing female in the bar. He'd been happily chatting up a lovely brunette when he suddenly realized he was surrounded by a group of five guys. Small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Outsiders are far from welcome. Natives stick together. They'd all gone outside the bar to discuss the situation. Dean grinned. Sammy might think he looked like hell, but he should see those other guys about now. True, he'd been unconscious when his new playmates left, but he knew that none of them were as pretty when they left as when he'd first seen them.

Sam sighed. Again. Dean knew it was coming and couldn't get out of the way. He was too messed up in oh so many ways.

"Dean. Are you trying to die in less than a year?"

"What?"

"The self-destructive behaviour, Dean. It's gotta stop. I told you, I'm gonna find a way to beat this, and I am. But you have to still be alive. You can't throw your life away in random fights or drink yourself to death or go out in a blaze of glory in this war."

"That's not what this is about Sam." Dean's voice was still quiet but sounded perfectly sober now. Sam knew that his brother wasn't sober and he was hurting. That's why they were having this conversation. Dean had spent most of the week rebuilding his protective walls, but they were still weak.

"Then tell me what it is about." Sam pressed his advantage, but gently.

"I'm afraid, Sam." Sam stopped breathing. Those were words he never thought he would hear his brother utter. Sam had been almost seventeen before he even realized his brother even experienced fear. Always that fear was sparked by danger to Sam. "I'm afraid to go to sleep 'cuz I can't stop the dreams."

"What dreams, Dean? Are you dreaming about…" Sam just couldn't say it. It was killing him that his brother might end up in hell. Because of him. Who wouldn't be having nightmares?

"Yeah. But it's not what you think." Dean paused and his voice was so low that Sam had to stoop to hear him. Dean stared resolutely at the table as if he could bore a hole into it. "It's wrong."

"What's wrong Dean?" Sam's voice was a gentle whisper.

"Dad's gone."

"He's been gone for a year now. How does…" Sam was having a little trouble following his brother's train of thought.

"No. I mean, I don't think he's in hell anymore. He got out, I think, and I should be happy about that. And I am, but…"

Slowly, Sam began to see where Dean was going with this. Finally, Dean looked up and straight into his brother's eyes.

"I thought that at the very least Dad would be there when I got there. But I'm going to be alone Sammy. Alone in hell. And that's the worst thing I could ever imagine."

"I keep telling you, I'm going to save your sorry ass."

"But, what if Sam?"

"Dean. I'll be alone too. Do you think that's what I want?"

"You've done it before Sam. Hell, you were _good_ at it."

"What? What are you talking about?" Sam frowned at his brother from under the hair shadowing his face.

"At Stanford. You made a life for yourself. You were normal. You can do it again, Sam."

"Maybe I don't want to. I'm not normal – whatever that is – and I never will be. We're each other's "normal". It's why I'm going to save you, Dean. How many times am I going to have to tell you this. When I went to Stanford, it wasn't about leaving _you_. It was about trying to leave the life. I took you for granted – I just always assumed you'd be there for me. So, in my heart, I was never alone – you were _always _there with me."

"And I always will be Sam. Regardless of where the rest of my sorry ass might be."

"Me, too, man."

Dean looked at Sammy and finally saw the strength that Sam had matured into over the last two years. It was a strength that Dean had fostered and nurtured. He had earned the right to lean on that strength, and over the past two years, he had come to a place where he could accept that help, knowing that it wouldn't break his brother; truly they were strongest when they were together. He really wasn't chubby twelve year old Sammy anymore. He was Sam. Except to Dean. To Dean he would always be Sammy. But just maybe it was time for someone, for Sam, to banish Dean's nightmares the way Dean had always banished Sammy's.


End file.
